FreeFreeDescription
capturing both the dialogue and the narrative nuance accurately:
Abla said, "Personally, this matter really bothers me; it hurts my heart. I just can't understand why they don't want to have children. One has only two, another has only three. Allah has blessed them with immense wealth, so are children what will prove difficult for them? It burns my heart. Everything about their lifestyle is European. If they would just help us and marry us, we would be bearing children for them every few months, and we would fill up the family in no time."
Abla's words brought no small amount of laughter to them. Sophia said, "Take it easy, breeder! They do want children too, and it’s not by their own choice that they aren’t giving birth. It’s their destiny that turned out this way. I heard the story from Hajjaty, since she has been in this house longer than us. They do conceive, but the children are not born alive. They mostly come out stillborn. Once they have their first and second births, it’s rare to see the rest survive; they are usually born dead. By Allah, I feel so sorry for them. Especially Prime Minister Hateem—he has never had a male child. He and his wife, Princess Mujeedat, have only two children, both girls. Their inability to have more children has left a massive void in their lives. Just look at Hateem; he is the wealthiest in their family, second only to Sharafudeen."
Astonishment covered the faces of some among them who had not been working there for long.
"This is really baffling. Have they checked their health? Or could it be a genetic condition passed down from generations of ancestors?"
"Not at all. From here in Nigeria to foreign countries, everyone’s health has been thoroughly checked. They have no issues regarding their reproductive cells; they are perfectly healthy. Their grandfather even brought in prominent Islamic scholars to investigate what was happening to his lineage. The result was exactly the same as the hospital’s—they have no medical condition."
They all felt subdued. They never knew about the issue of their wives giving birth to stillborn children until Sophia informed them today.
"Allah, we repent, please forgive us. That's why it is said that suspicion is a sin, even if it happens to be true. Gossip never yields anything good. We were the ones always backbiting about them living a European lifestyle and not wanting children, whereas it wasn't their fault at all; it is a trial from Allah," Safa said in a somber voice.
Abla added, "I feel so sorry for them, and In sha Allah, we will support them with prayers, that Allah may remove this affliction troubling them." They fell silent for a short while, after which Safa arranged Hajiya Saratu's breakfast items on a large tray. After she left the kitchen, the others continued with another conversation; they never seemed to tire of discussing the Obinna family.
"We have a massive celebration coming up for Obie's birthday. I know it's going to be an extravagant party; dollars and pounds will be raining down. On that day, we will see Obinna's prominent children and grandchildren who don't live in the country. I am certain Owais will attend too."
Sophia spoke with a face full of joy. Abla countered, "Is it certain that Owais will come? You know how he is; finding time in his schedule is very difficult."
"Even if he didn't intend to, Obinna will pressure him to come. You know that out of all his grandchildren, he loves Owais the most; everyone knows this. You see, he wouldn't want this celebration to happen without Owais being present," Abla said.
Sopy smiled. "Can't wait to see. May Allah bring us to that time. I definitely have to go wash my eyes so I can get a good chance to stare at him."
"You might end up getting slapped instead. Owais hates being stared at. When he is speaking, no one dares raise their eyes to look at him, and he must not be interrupted. His only saving grace is that if you study his character and habits thoroughly, you will get along fine. He is a humble person, not arrogant, and he is compassionate and helpful to those beneath him..." From the moment she started listing his good qualities, she didn't stop until the landline near the kitchen exit door rang, causing her to pause. Sophia quickly went out to pick up the incoming call, offering her greetings respectfully, her body trembling slightly.
"Coffee..." That was all she heard uttered over the phone before the line clicked. Realizing the caller had hung up, she removed it from her ear and placed it on the table. She returned to the kitchen, where everyone's attention immediately shifted to her.
They practically spoke over each other, asking, "Who called?"
She grimaced and said, "I couldn't quite tell whose voice it was between them, Zaid or Zayn. They want coffee. Who is going to take it to them?" she asked, looking at the others. Silence followed; no one volunteered to take it because they were terribly afraid of entering their wing due to their harsh tempers.
"Look, since you were the one who answered the call, just manage it and take it to them so we can move past this," Abla said. Sophia twisted her face in annoyance, but she had no choice. She prepared the coffee in two mugs, placed them on a tray, and left the kitchen.
From the moment Safa left with the tray containing Hajiya Saratu’s breakfast, she headed straight to their wing. Before she even reached the front of the bedroom door, the exquisite scent of Saratu's perfume struck her nose. She was a woman who loved pleasant fragrances and knew how to dress elegantly. Safa stood at the door and offered her greetings. From inside the room, she heard Hajiya Saratu’s voice:
"You can come in."
Slowly, she pushed the door open and entered. Hajiya Saratu was sitting in the middle of her massive bed, wearing a jallabiya. Her head was uncovered, revealing an "all back" braided hairstyle, with the tail of her hair resting on her shoulder. Her clear eyes were behind a pair of white medicated glasses. She had a beautiful dark complexion, looking thoroughly pampered and wealthy. Her entire attention was focused on the expensive Apple laptop she was operating; by all indications, she was working.
"Once you’re done looking at me, please put the food on the table and leave my room." Her voice jolted Safa from her intent staring. Flustered, Safa greeted her, "Good morning, Hajiya." Saratu let out a short hiss without responding, not even deeming her worthy of a glance. Safa placed the tray on the front table by the bedside.
"Is there anything else you require?" Safa asked, feeling apprehensive because she knew her temperament—if she didn't give you permission to leave and you attempted to turn around, she would sharply bark, “With whose permission?!”
Safa stood there until she grew tired of the silence, as Saratu ignored her as if no one else was in the room. It was her habit to ignore people. Only after she took her time did she grant Safa permission to leave. After Safa exited the room, Saratu paused her laptop work. She moved forward, reached out, grabbed a burger, and began stuffing it into her mouth. She didn't joke with her appetite; within a short time, she devoured it. She then pulled over some chicken wings and ate them. When she finished, she took a bowl packed with plantain chips, eating rapidly like someone battling starvation, until she cleaned out everything. Finally, she washed it down with cold juice.
"What I love about you is that you never joke with your stomach." Hearing her husband's voice made her look up at him. He had just emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. His physique was like that of a wrestler—a strong, heavily built, large man. A handsome Indian man, his hair lay smooth and flat on his head, with a neat beard lining the sides of his long face.
She puckered her lips at him. "What is this? Didn't I tell you to stop walking around with a towel around your waist? What if the housemaid was still in the room when you came out?" she said with a stern expression.
He moved closer to her and leaned down slightly toward her face. "When will you stop being jealous of me?"
She rolled her eyes at him. "I don't know. All I know is I've told you: don't you dare come out wrapped in a short cloth around your waist again, I don't like such carelessness." They looked into each other's eyes.
"Our three children are all grown up and independent. I expected you to reduce this jealousy of yours."
She glared at him. "Please go and put your clothes on, I don't want to see you like this." He reached out, attempting to untie the towel in front of her. Quickly and somewhat crossly, she grabbed his hands and said, "Pravin, what is this? Is this childhood behavior?"
He winked at her with a smile on his face and said, "As long as I am with you, I will never grow old, because of the pure love you show me."
Saratu smirked. "I hear you. Now go and put your clothes on. Also, what do you want to eat so I can have it brought to you?"
The smile did not fade from his face as he said, "Whatever you ate is what I want to eat, my love. I see you've already finished your breakfast; why didn't you wait for me to come out so we could eat together?"
She kept her face stern. "Pravin, we are not little children for you to stand there telling me romantic words. Though I just remembered, you Indians worship romance until you grow old doing the same thing," she finished teasingly.
He nodded. "Whatever you say, I won't take offense at your words, my newest bride, my senior wife, the mother of my children, and my pride."
Saratu closed her eyes briefly; if she indulged Pravin, he wouldn't let her continue her work. He was a master in the field of romance and sweet-talking, highly skilled at capturing a woman's attention.
"Romeo, now your Juliet is at work. I’m almost done, I’ll have your breakfast brought to you, and I will personally feed you." He replied with an "Okay." With some effort, she persuaded him to get up and head into the room. As he walked, she stole glances at his back. He stood in front of his closet and opened it.
"My Juliet, you didn't tell me which clothes you want me to wear!"
She smiled. "There's no work today, you have a day off, so I prefer to see you in your traditional attire." He understood what she meant. He pulled out a matching shirt and trousers in the style of Indian men and put them on; they fit his body shape perfectly, making him look like a young man due to how well-maintained he was.
After he finished getting ready, Hajiya Saratu had his breakfast brought in. She fed him with her own hands as he ate. She loved him fiercely, completely crazy about Pravin, just as he cherished her. Allah had truly bonded them. No one enjoyed her soft side like her husband; everything she had belonged to him.
By the time Sophia reached the bedroom of the twins located upstairs on the second floor, her body was trembling. She knocked on the door nearly three times before she heard the voice of one of them: "You can come in." She took a deep breath before pushing open the door to their luxurious bedroom. The cool air from the A.C. and the scent of their perfume struck her nose, causing her to close her eyes because of how intensely the fragrance permeated her senses. Before she even fully stepped inside, she spotted one of them standing in front of a massive dressing mirror, wearing nothing but red shorts, while his twin brother lay on the bed, half-covered with a duvet. Their handsome physiques were the exact replica of their father Pravin's, as if he had cast them in his own mold.
With a slightly shaky voice, she said, "Good morning, sir. Here is the coffee. Where should I place it?"
Without turning around to look at her, he said, "On my head." Immediately, her blood ran cold. She didn't know what to do. Zaid, who was lying on the bed, placed one of his legs on the front table by the bedside.
"Is that how your parents taught you to enter a room, without saying 'Assalamu Alaikum'? Did you just walk into a room of infidels?" His voice sounded heavy, like that of a drunkard.
"Forgive me, sir. Before I came in, I did offer greetings; perhaps you didn't hear me."
He turned around abruptly, giving her a dismissive, judgmental look. "Am I deaf?"
She shook her head, her voice trembling. "That’s not what I meant, sir..." He didn't let her finish her sentence; he pointed toward the exit door.
Sharply, he barked, "Oya, go back out and offer the greeting properly!" His face was completely contorted in a scowl. Sophia's eyes immediately filled with tears. Dejectedly, she turned and went back outside.
Clearing her throat, she said loudly, "Assalamu alaikum." Silence; he didn't answer her. She stepped back inside. "Sir, I have greeted. May I come in? The coffee is getting cold."
Before he could answer her, Zayn, who was lying on the bed, uttered, "I didn’t hear it. Go back and make another greeting."
She was surprised to hear his voice; she had assumed he was asleep, but his eyes were wide open. Feeling as though her throat was about to burst, she raised her voice even louder to greet them. She went from doing it respectfully to becoming thoroughly exhausted, her eyes turning red and puffy. She offered the greeting nearly fifteen times without them granting her permission to enter the room, until the coffee in her hand went completely cold. Only when they were sure she was thoroughly exhausted did Zaid tell her to come in. She entered with tears streaming down her cheeks.
She found Zayn reclining with his head on a pillow; he didn't even deem her worthy of a proper glance. Shaking, she headed toward the table to set down the tray. Zayn's harsh voice stopped her.
"Don’t you dare put that on the table! Go back and make another coffee. Who is going to drink something that has gone cold?"
Stunned, she turned around, crying as she rushed out of the room. They couldn't care less; they were experts at cruelty and malice when they chose to be. Every single day, they made sure to make one of the housemaids shed tears.
"Bro, when are we going back to America?" Zaid asked while sitting on the dressing table chair.
Zayn grimaced. "We have no way out, Zaid, seriously. I'm so frustrated that Obie forced us to return to Nigeria. He has ruined our lifestyle; we are the only ones he keeps his eyes on, while Owais is out there flying around foreign countries like a bird. I am tired of this old man’s behavior; I don't even know what he is still doing alive in this world. Every year I buy a new shroud and burial perfume for his death, but he just refuses to pass away," he said, visibly angered.
Zaid, looking at his brother with a smile, said, "I know what you’re mad about."
Zayn scoffed. "That is your concern too. Ummi America is the cause of everything." He spoke heatedly; by all indications, a raw nerve in his heart had been touched.
"Everything about her is different. From the first day I saw her, I knew she was a classy woman with a magnetic personality that could captivate any man." Zayn closed his eyes, recalling the very first time they met her.
"I wished she had accepted me; nothing would have stopped me from marrying her. I would gather all my wealth, my mother's wealth, and all of that old man's wealth and give it as her dowry. But unfortunately, she made it clear she doesn't want marriage in her life. Zaid, what am I to do with my life? She has inflicted me with an obsession I can't erase," he said passionately.
Zaid glared at him. "I don't get it. How can you keep talking to me about a woman I want to possess for myself? You know it's forbidden for us to share the same woman in marriage, right? We can do that outside, even though doing that is also a sin."
Zayn shrugged. "Zaid, I won't argue with you, just don't forget that I am the wealthy one here, mommy's favorite, and women require money."
Zaid let out a wicked laugh before saying, "I have a daddy too, don't forget everything mommy owns belongs to him."
Zayn stared blankly until Zaid finished speaking, then said, "Daddy is just mommy's errand boy, a man living in his in-laws' house? Mommy is the source of his wealth, how can you compare yourself to me? Don't you know we own the wealth and you are our servants? It’s only when we throw some grain your way that you get what you scrape by with..."
Zaid stared at his brother in utter amazement. The way Zayn spoke, disparaging their father, thoroughly baffled him. If an outsider had uttered those words, they would have teamed up to beat the person up, as they despised the mockery their father faced for living in his in-laws' house.
"Assalamu Alaikum." Sophia's voice interrupted their conversation. She stood outside by the doorway. "Sir, here is the coffee, I made a fresh one."
In unison, they snapped, "We don’t need it!"
She felt deeply bitter; after all the trouble she went through, they ended up refusing to drink it. She nodded her head, turned around, and left their wing.
"Zayn, you have no respect. Are you seriously mocking our dad?" Zaid bolted upright, sitting up angrily. "Am I lying? I have never seen a man as spineless as our dad. Even today, whenever I remember the mockery we face, it infuriates me. Allah has blessed us with everything in life, but our dad has brought us shame."
Zaid nodded slowly. "It burns my heart too, it hurts inside, but what can we do? We just have to accept our destiny."
Zayn got off the bed and headed into the bathroom, leaving Zaid alone in the room, sitting in front of the mirror staring at his face. His mind was flooded with nothing but the face of UMMIN AMERICA.
MIDDLE STEP
From the pen of the Boss ✍️
He was reclining on a soft carpet inside the exquisite garden of his house, dressed in a sky-blue voile shirt and trousers. The clothes fit him perfectly. He was fair-skinned, though not overly so. All the signs of old age were visible on his face and body; he was at least eighty years old. One look at his skin revealed a life of pure luxury and comfort. He wore no cap, but his advanced age did not hide the handsomeness of his face. He was so strikingly attractive that it would be hard for anyone to look at him just once and turn away, owing to his elegance and how well he carried himself. His hair lay smooth, fully covered in a well-groomed white mane. Around his forehead, there were thin streaks of gray hair styled gracefully, making him look exceptionally distinguished. He had an elongated face with large gray eyes. He was a man obsessed with pleasant scents, looking as though he bathed in perfume given how his body radiated a sweet fragrance capable of calming any tension. His long, snow-white beard cascaded down to his chest, and he possessed a thick head of hair.
An honorable elder and a heroic man bearing the qualities of a true leader who easily commanded the respect of the public. He was a man of dignity, immense wealth, sharp intelligence, exceptional prowess, resilience, and absolute integrity. He excelled in public relations, was a man of his word, and never broke a promise. Allah had blessed him in every single aspect, yet the vast wealth he accumulated never swayed him from his religious devotion. He strictly fulfilled his obligations to his Lord, from distributing compulsory charity (Zakat) and voluntary alms to treating the public with kindness. He was a man who felt deep empathy for the poor; his wealth never brought him arrogance, greed, or disdain for the less fortunate. Everyone belonged to him; that was just who he was.
Behind his seating area, his walking stick leaned against a tree. It was crafted entirely from pure gold, its value alone enough to permanently pull a servant out of poverty. As the garden breeze swept through his body, he slowly closed and opened his eyes, taking in the luxurious adornments around the garden. Whenever he felt overwhelmed by loneliness, he would isolate himself from people without anyone's knowledge, coming into the garden to enjoy the fresh air. He knew that if his caretakers found him alone in the garden, they would immediately call his children and inform them, causing them to lose their peace of mind until they came to check on him and ensure he was perfectly fine. He, however, did not want to interrupt their work, as they already made great efforts to visit him regularly and loved him dearly. His biggest concern right now was his grandson, whom he loved to distraction, but who was currently far away from him. He had set his heart entirely on loving him; even the children he fathered did not receive the kind of affection he showered on this grandson. His entire attention was currently fixed on the beautiful flowers in the garden and the creatures roaming within it, such as the peacocks and butterflies, which he took great pleasure in watching.
The distinct, mesmerizing scent of her body oil struck his nose. Before she even reached him, he raised his eyes, looked at her, and then averted his gaze to the side, devoid of any warmth on his face.
Approaching him, she bowed slightly and greeted him respectfully. He remained silent and did not acknowledge her. This reaction made her realize that something was wrong; she had never seen a look of worry on the old man's face until today.
In a soft voice, she said, "Sir, I checked inside the house and couldn't find you, which is why I came to look for you in the garden. I brought you some fresh fruit." She spoke while bending down to place the fruits before him.
Opening his mouth, he simply asked, "Has Owais returned to this house?"
A faint smile appeared on Hajjaty's face. "Sir, Owais is not even in the country. Have you forgotten?"
He wrinkled his face slightly. "Oh, right, I forgot."
As she prepared to stand up, she asked, "Do you need anything else?"
He shook his head. "I don't want anyone to know I am in the garden."
She complied and said okay before heading straight toward the entry hall to go inside the house. Her heart was heavy with thoughts of what could be bothering the elder. How could she find out? She worried deeply about him because of his immense kindness toward them; she couldn't bear to see him in this state.
Right at the entrance door to the living room, she bumped into a young man who was about to step out. He was tall, slender, without an ounce of fat on his body. He was strikingly fair-skinned, appearing entirely caucasian with no traits linking him to the Black race. He was dressed in medical attire—white trousers, a white shirt, and a lab coat worn over it. His clear eyes were framed by white glasses. Masha Allah, he was extraordinarily handsome, with his hair reaching down to his neck.
"Jazz!" The way she called his name made him halt in his tracks.
Looking at her with a stern face, he said, "What do you need? An injection or surgery?"
She let out a small laugh, revealing her white teeth.
"Look, I'm in a hurry. I just got a call on my phone; I have a patient," he said, trying to bypass her to leave. She grabbed his hand, making him grimace. Shifting his feet uncomfortably, he looked at her.
Jazz tried to pull his hand back gently but firmly, his eyes checking his watch. "Hajjaty, please. You know how strict the hospital is. If I delay any longer, it could be a matter of life and death for someone."
Hajjaty didn't let go immediately. She lowered her voice, casting a quick glance back toward the garden path. "I know you are busy, Doctor, but your grandfather... Obinna is not himself today. I found him alone in the garden, staring into space. He even asked me if Owais had returned. You know how his mind is whenever he starts missing that boy. I am deeply worried about his health."
Hearing his grandfather’s name, the professional urgency on Jazz’s face softened into genuine concern. He stopped shifting his feet. "He asked for Owais again? His birthday celebration is in a few weeks, and the stress of waiting is clearly getting to him. Did you check his blood pressure?"
"He didn't even let me stay near him, Jazz. He told me to keep his whereabouts a secret from the rest of the house. You know how stubborn he gets when he wants to be alone," Hajjaty sighed, finally releasing his wrist. "Just... try to see him before you leave, or call him when you get to the clinic."
"Alright, I'll call his personal physician to slip in and check on him without making a scene. I really must go now," Jazz said, adjusting his glasses before rushing out toward his car parked in the grand driveway.
Meanwhile, back in the main kitchen, Sophia was leaning against the marble countertop, her eyes still red and swollen from the humiliation she had just faced in the twins' room.
Abla handed her a glass of cold water. "Wipe your tears, Sophia. You know how those boys are. Zayn and Zaid have no mercy in their hearts. They treat everyone like dirt beneath their feet, just because their mother holds the family purse strings."
Safa, who had just finished organizing the pantry, joined them. "It's the truth. Did you hear how they talk to their own father? Even the walls of this house know that Mr. Pravin is only tolerated here because Hajiya Saratu is madly in love with him. If it weren't for her, those boys would have pushed him out long ago. They look down on him because he lives under his in-laws' roof."
"But Mr. Pravin is such a good man," Sophia sniffled, taking a sip of the water. "He treats everyone with kindness, unlike his arrogant sons. How can children look down on the man who gave them life?"
"Money changes people," Abla said dryly, looking toward the door. "Especially the kind of wealth the Obinna family possesses. Let's just pray that when Owais returns, the atmosphere in this house changes. He is the only one who can put the twins in their place without Hajiya Saratu throwing a tantrum."
"Speaking of Owais," Safa whispered, leaning closer to the others. "Have you heard the rumors about Ummi America? The way Zayn and Zaid were arguing about her... she must be an extraordinary woman to have both twins losing their minds over her, even though she wants nothing to do with marriage."
"Shh! Lower your voice," Abla warned, looking over her shoulder. "If Hajiya Saratu hears you mentioning that woman's name in this kitchen, we will all be packing our bags before sunset. That topic is a forbidden zone in this house."
Upstairs, the heavy silence in Hajiya Saratu’s bedroom was broken only by the soft clicking of her laptop keys. Pravin had finished his breakfast and was now sitting on the edge of the bed, watching his wife intently.
"Saratu," he called out softly, using the gentle tone that always managed to soften her hardened exterior.
"Hmm?" she responded, not taking her eyes off the screen.
"The boys... I heard them speaking down the hall before the maid went in. They are still bitter about staying in Nigeria. Don't you think it's time we let them return to the States? Their presence here is only causing friction, especially with Obinna."
Saratu paused her typing. She lowered her medicated glasses and looked at her husband, her dark face unreadable. "Pravin, my father requested their presence here for his birthday, and what my father wants, he gets. If Zaid and Zayn cannot learn to respect the soil that fed their ancestors, then they will learn it by force. I don't care how much they complain."
Pravin sighed, rising from the bed and walking over to stand behind her, placing his large, warm hands on her shoulders. "I just don't want them bringing up things that will hurt you. You know how defensive they get over the family dynamics."
Saratu reached up, placing her hand over his. "They are spoiled, Pravin. But they know their limits. If they dare disrespect you or my father openly, I will cut off their allowances before they can even book a flight back to New York. Now, let me finish this report. I want to have the rest of the afternoon free for you."
A beautiful, rare smile broke across Saratu’s face, a view reserved strictly for the man who held her heart captive.
Down in the garden, the old patriarch Obinna sat quietly, his golden walking stick resting against his knee. He picked up a piece of sliced apple from the tray Hajjaty had left, but his appetite was gone.
His gray eyes traced the flight of a butterfly landing on a nearby rosebush. His mind was miles away, across the ocean, thinking of the one grandson who carried his spirit, his resilience, and his true legacy.
"Owais..." the old man murmured to himself, his voice thick with emotion. "You must come back before the curtains fall. This house is full of wolves, and you are the only shepherd I trust."
As if responding to his unspoken thoughts, the phone in his pocket vibrated. He pulled it out, his old fingers trembling slightly as he saw the international number flashing across the screen.
What happens next? Does Owais call his grandfather, and what hidden secrets will be revealed as the grand birthday celebration approaches?
